


Target Sighted

by SharkGirl



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Banter, Flirting, M/M, Minor Character Death (OC) - not detailed, Sniper Lance (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 17:43:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11788185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharkGirl/pseuds/SharkGirl
Summary: This should have been an easy job. And yet, he’d lost it to the rival agency. Again.





	Target Sighted

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This is my first time posting a Voltron fic (I know, where have I been?) But I'm not going to lie...I'm a little nervous. So, please be gentle!  
> And, of course, my first fic is an AU, of all things.
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely and talented Ghost~ Also read over by the stupendous Laura and fantastic Crispy ^^  
> Please enjoy!

“Target sighted.”

Lance rolled his shoulders, adjusting his grip on his sniper rifle. From his perch, he had a full view of the entire warehouse. But he was only concerned with the office on the second floor. He had a clear shot. All he needed to do was take it. Easy.

“Okay, Blue.” He smoothed his thumb over the safety, switching it off. “Let’s just-”

But he paused, his finger hovering over the trigger. He could have sworn he saw – But there it was again! – Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted movement unrelated to his mark. He pulled back just in time to see something dart past one of the windows.

“Oh, no you don’t.” Lance leaned closer, following the figure until it was right between his crosshairs. He let out a groan as the uninvited guest came into focus. He’d recognize that mullet anywhere. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” He threw his head back and rubbed his eyes. “Not again.”

He peered back through the scope, watching as the now familiar figure stealthily lunged toward the target, easily taking him down with one calculated slice of his blade. Lance cursed his bad luck. This should have been an easy job. And yet, he’d lost it to the rival agency. Again.

But what was most infuriating to Lance was the fact that it was that _same_ assassin. The one that always seemed to be one step ahead of him. And there was a reason the be-mulleted, blade-wielding hothead was their competition’s best. Lance was his team’s resident sharpshooter, but that meant nothing compared to the sleek movements and almost inhuman agility of his rival.

“Damn it.” Lance cursed and started to disassemble his rifle with jerky, agitated motions. Oh, he was going to pay for that.

 

Lance calmed down, if only a bit, by the time he made it home, tossing his keys onto the counter and dropping his bag onto the floor. It made a loud, clanging thump and he immediately felt guilty.

“Sorry, girl,” he apologized, though he knew his rifle couldn’t answer. “I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

With a sigh, he made his way into the kitchen. It wasn’t like he was going to be fired or anything. That’s just how their business was. Sometimes you got your mark and sometimes you didn’t. And his record was pretty good, even with interference.

Lance opened the freezer and pulled out a bag of frozen, pre-made garlic knots. They weren’t as good as the ones from the family restaurant down the street, but he didn’t feel like going out. He tossed a serving or five onto a metal tray and began preheating the oven.

He was sitting in his favorite chair, the knots nearly halfway done baking, when the door to the apartment opened. Lance didn’t look up from his magazine. “You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here,” he said, not bothering to hide the anger from his tone.

“Not my fault you hesitated,” the other began and then added. “Mr. _Sharpshooter_.”

That caused Lance to finally tear his gaze away from the article he was half-reading. He glanced up at the other man, his eyes narrowed. “That was _my_ mark, Keith.”

“Was it?” the other replied before disappearing into the kitchen.

Lance growled and slammed his magazine down onto the coffee table. He stomped into the kitchen, his arms folded over his chest.

“Watch it,” Keith said, leaning against the counter and eying Lance’s booted feet. “The neighbors downstairs will pitch a fit.”

“You don’t even care, do you?” Lance threw his arms out. “Do you know how long it takes to set up? No, you don’t!” He clenched his fists at his sides. “You just go flying in, no consideration for anyone else, and-”

“Did you put the entire bag in there?” Keith asked. He’d opened the oven door a crack and was peeking inside. “Don’t tell me that’s all there is for dinner.”

“Oh my G-rrrrgh,” Lance practically screamed, tugging at his hair. “Can’t you even pretend for a _moment_ that you feel bad?” he questioned. “I lost money today.”

“It’s no big deal,” Keith said, his attention now on the contents of the refrigerator. He was bent over, one arm holding the door open, the other rummaging through boxes of leftover take-out and cups of yogurt. He pulled back just far enough to meet Lance’s gaze. “I make more money, anyway.”

“That’s not the point and you know it!” Lance shrieked. “Seriously, Keith. You have no shame!” He put his hands on his hips, half-incredulous and half-furious.

“No shame,” Keith echoed, settling on a container of lo mein. He pulled a pair of chopsticks out of a drawer and then bumped it closed with his hip. “Now, isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?” he teased.

Lance grumbled, but still followed the path of a noodle as Keith slurped it up, the other smirking with sauce-coated lips.

“See?”

“Oh, screw you!” Lance spat, averting his gaze and busying himself with finding an oven mitt to retrieve his own dinner. Weren’t they done yet?

“Maybe later,” Keith replied, sauntering over and placing a hand on Lance’s shoulder. “But hey, after dinner, maybe I can console you on your botched assignment.”

“You-” Lance began, but Keith continued.

“And you can help me celebrate a job well done.” He gave Lance’s shoulder a pat and headed toward the kitchen table. He took a seat and smiled up at him, all perfect teeth and big eyes and smooth skin.

Lance took a deep breath, shooting a glare in Keith’s direction. “Sometimes I wonder why I put up with you.”

“It’s all part and parcel with the whole till death do us part thing, remember?” Keith threw back at him, digging through his noodles for a prawn. “It was your idea, after all.”

“I regret ever having asked you,” Lance scoffed. “I was young and stupid then.”

“Not much has changed, huh?” Keith began, setting the container down and crossing one leg over the other. “Of course, I suppose you _did_ age a bit. The other morning I noticed some crow’s feet while you were— _Lance!”_ Keith shouted as Lance ran forward, picking him up and throwing him over his shoulder. “Lance, put me down!” he said, but it was hard to tell with the way he was laughing.

“Crow’s feet? Seriously?” Lance hiked him up higher, readjusting his hold. “You can take my mark and insult my dinner, but when you doubt the effectiveness of my daily, anti-aging regimen, that’s where I draw the line!” He gave Keith a swat on the butt and began marching toward their bedroom.

“Lance!” Keith snorted. “What about dinner?”

“It can wait.” He dropped him unceremoniously onto their bed. “You need to be taught a lesson first.”

“You’re going to burn your garlic knots,” Keith warned, looping his arms around Lance’s neck.

“No, I won’t.”

But he did.

**Author's Note:**

> No garlic knots were harmed in the writing of this fic.
> 
> Let me know what you think and hit me up on my Voltron side blog [@bleucheesy](http://bleucheesy.tumblr.com)!


End file.
